


in the arms of a lethal temptress

by CoaxionUnlimited



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, Petstuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 17:28:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1274914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoaxionUnlimited/pseuds/CoaxionUnlimited
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Which A Runaway Troll Contracts A Hardboiled Assassin In Order To Avenge Her Dead Brother And They Travel Across The Country Together, Developing Red Feelings For Each Other Along The Way. Contains No Less Than Three Ambushes, Far Too Many Instances Of Concupiscent Relationships Between Females, At Least Seven Fight Scenes - One Of Which Is On A Train, Shameless References To Problem Sleuth, One Very Significant Scene At A Party, And Absolutely No Horrorterrors At All.</p><p>(Or, True Grit with lesbians)</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the arms of a lethal temptress

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I have never actually seen/read True Grit.
> 
> Also, the summary is probably going to get longer, as are the tags.

“Is this the office of Ms. Lalonde?”

“Speaking. What may I do for you?”

You twirl around in your elegant black desk chair, away from your elegant black macbook, cradling your phone against the curve of your neck. Your day job as an author requires little maintenance of your image, but you do prefer to keep your night job out of your novels.

“I would like to contract your services,” the mysterious caller replies, superfluously at best. A woman, contacting you in the middle of the day, with that particular furtive brand of fatigue, ill-hidden beneath the facade of cool elegance, could hardly be calling for anything else, “Your services as a hitwoman, if I was not being clear, although-” You privately mark this one down as a talker, and cut of the impending ramble with a simple,

“Cut to the chase, miss. Time is money, and I’m made of neither.”

“Very well then. I would like to hire you as a bodyguard, for long enough that I may complete a small errand.”

“And what would that errand be?”

“I would like to kill the Crocker family.”

You make an admirable effort not to allow your jaw to drop, but it slackens a little despite all the will you can muster. The dame on the other end of the phone does not sound like she’s capable of murder. She sounds, to put it mildly, hysterical.

“Are you sure you would not like me to kill them for you? I do that, you know. And at very reasonable rates, although I may have to increase the charges for the Crockers. Risks of the job, I’m sure you’ll understand.”

“I understand,” the woman says, “And I will be more than happy to pay you whatever you require on the completion of my errand. But it is my errand, and I would not think to impose it on you.”

Ah! A hint of proper steel at last.

“If I may ask,” you murmur, “What have the Crockers done to you? Unless I’m sorely mistaken, they’re an upstanding family. They donate to charity, they pay all their taxes-”

“They killed my little brother.”

You blink, your mouth coming together with an almost audible click.

“Very well then,” you continue, as though she’d never spoken, “I am willing to make an appointment with you. When would you like to meet?”

A pregnant pause. Then,

“Are you free now?”

“I am, in fact, free now. Are you suggesting that we meet now? Because I’m more than willing to see you, but I have another appointment in about half an hour, and I highly doubt that you live close enough to my residence to make a meeting that quickly.”

“I’m standing outside your door.”

You blink, surprised for the second time in the conversation. Most unusual.

“Well then, come in. It’s rather cold out there, is it not?”

“It is. That is a thing I have noticed.”

You’ve paced over to the door, and your hand has closed around the handle when the woman on the other end of the line delicately clears her throat.

“Um. Ms. Lalonde, there is a small matter I’ve failed to mention.”

“I’m sure we can discuss it in person. I’m sure you’ll agree that it’s rather puerile to discuss these things over the phone when there’s barely six inches of reinforced steel between us.”

And with that, you yank open the door, and find yourself face to face with a troll.

—

After a moment of startled silence, you manage to overcome your shock and assess her, breaking her down into a neat list of surprises.

1: She’s almost as tall as you are. You didn’t know that trolls got this big.

2: She’s a jadeblood. Rare. Probably once property of the Crockers since she hates them so much.

3: She’s demonstrated more intelligence than most trolls are supposed to be capable of. Even her fashion sense is admirable, for one obviously shopping on little to no money.

4: She-

“Ms. Lalonde?”

“You’re a troll,” you say, and immediately curse yourself for the inanity.

“I am,” she says, coolly, her green eyes narrowed at you as if assessing you for combat. You are not intimidated in the least. She is too thin to be physically intimidating, and besides, you have the Thorns in your strife deck. You may not be a full time assassin anymore, but you are never unprepared. You shake your head a little, jolt your brain into some semblance of order, and try again,

“I’m afraid you have the advantage of me. What is your name?”

“I am Kanaya Maryam.”

“And I am Rose Lalonde. It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Maryam. Would you like a cup of tea?”

“I would enjoy one very much, thank you.”

—

Five minutes later, you have set up your specially painted tea set and set forth a stunning display of specially crafted cucumber sandwiches and handpicked Assam black tea - exactly as your mother would have done. You even included a passive aggressive description of how the sandwiches were made, and how much, exactly the tea cost. It’s practically home. Seven minutes later, your guest has devoured the sandwiches and is daintily sipping at her tea, and you feel that without the distraction of food, she may actually pay attention to you.

“By all rights,” you begin, “I should be returning you to your owner right now.”

“That would be the legal thing to do, yes” your guest replies, not looking up from her tea, “That is why I came to you instead of the police.”

You give her a polite smirk.

“Oh, I’m sure that had something to do with it. I’m also sure the police would not aid you in an assassination attempt on the Crocker family.”

“I would have preferred to simply press charges.”

You glance up at the troll, at her hands clenched around the teacup, at the brittle mask of cool impatience stretched across her features, and you smile.

“I think not,” you murmur mildly. Ms. Maryam’s head snaps upwards, her eyes narrowing, and she opens her mouth to say something. 

You would have responded, had the wall not chosen that particular moment to explode inward. 

——

Your name is Kanaya Maryam, and you really wish that you could say that this was the worst thing ever to happen to you in your entire life.

Being attacked by Crockercorp goons in the house of a famous assassin who may or may not be willing to work for you is not even the weirdest thing ever to happen to you. In fact, it’s almost disgustingly predictable. Instinct takes you to your feet a moment after the explosion, ready to run, but Ms. Lalonde has other ideas. Specifically, she has one hand around your bicep, and a frankly impressive violet pistol in the other and the grip on your upper arm is strong enough that you are not sure you can twist away.

You fumble for your lipstick.

“Please stand still, Ms. Maryam,” your protectress purrs, “I’d hate for you to get in the way.”

Your fingers close around the tube, but you stay obediently still. Rose Lalonde is famed for her quick draw, and if you are going to use the money to pay for her services, you’d like to see if she’s worth the fee.

You blink. 

You must have blinked, because in the space between one second and the next, one of your assailants has a smoking hole in his torso. You hadn’t even seen her raise her arm. Before you can think, before you can even register the strange oily blackness of the smoke, Ms. Lalonde has fired again. Her second shot is no less accurate than the first, and no less unnerving.

But you haven’t lived this long without a basic understanding of Crockercorp’s bodyguard training, and, in mortal time, you wrench your arm out of Ms. Lalonde’s grasp and uncap your lipstick. She fires another two shots - and you slam your chainsaw into the final goon’s collarbone. He’s only just stumbled back, and you’ve only just raised your chainsaw in pursuit, when Ms. Lalonde’s fifth bullet takes off his head.

The only sound in the room is your labored breath.

“I trust you have no bags to pack, Ms. Maryam?”

“No,” you hedge.

“Then let’s get moving. If Crockercorp knows you’re here, then there’s nothing stopping them from trying again. We’ll take the noon train, I think, and-”

“So you’ll take the job?”

Your voice is desperate. Unseemly, as Betty Crocker would put it. But you aren’t in the Crocker household now, and Ms. Lalonde is not Mrs. Crocker. She smiles at your indiscretion, a knifeblade of black lipstick aimed more at herself than you. 

“They took out most of my front wall and my favorite typewriter. Crockercorp, Ms. Maryam, has made this personal.”

She shakes her head, as if to clear it, and the mask of the cold assassin is back in place.

“Come along Ms. Maryam. We have better things to do with our time than stand here and wait for the landlord to arrive.”

Since your egress is through the convenient hole in the kitchen wall, neither of you notice the small scrap of paper wedged in the doorjamb.


End file.
